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The Career I Never Knew I Always Wanted The banner was taped high over the chalkboard menu at my Miami high school. “Women Empowerment seminars to be held in the library.” We all went and pledged allegiance to Helen Reddy and stood at attention during her “I Am Woman” ballad. Part of our doctrine as believers was the certain knowledge that we are entitled to all that men hold dear. As a product of the sixties, matured in the seventies, I was led to believe I could not possibly be fulfilled as a woman unless I had a professional career, just like my brothers. I owed it to women throughout the world to venture out each morning, briefcase in one hand, heavily caffeinated coffee in the other, so I can fork over those taxes every payday, while visions of Norma Rae march through my head. My career development began as a nurse because I truly believed I was a people person. I’d probably still be one if it wasn’t for all those sick people. I left nursing to earn a degree in Accounting. The fact that I have failed every mathematics class since the third grade should have tipped me off that this probably wasn’t the career for me. After seriously damaging several companies’ books, I left accounting to market insurance. This was fun until I was denied a promotion because I don’t look the sales professional type. (I still favor the sixties bohemian fashions and I’ve put on more than my share of weight.) I went back again to receive yet another degree, this time in communications. Sadly, I discovered communication executives are all under the age of twelve and are required by law to be seen working out daily at their local Bally Fitness Center. So, with my diplomas safely tucked away in my sock drawer, I now work my posterior off as a personal assistant to an attorney who spends his days playing Fantasy Football. Somehow in my quest to fulfill myself as a business professional, I managed to have seven children. (Yeah, I know, but we know what causes babies now, so we’re done.) I’d like to say that my children continuously lift me up in admiration for being a hardworking mother, but most of the time they see my work as a nuisance. Some of them actually feel compelled to fix their own bologna sandwiches. Last night, my son was forced to load the dishwasher all by himself. Guilt for being away from them all day often turns me into a sap. I get talked into sitting up until midnight editing essays, sewing spirit week costumes, and being the only mother in the entire state of Florida with a car when the neighborhood kids all want to go to a movie. Being a sap can change your life in ways you never would imagine. Six months ago, my seventeen-year-old son sat me down on the sofa and told me he had a fifteen-year-old girl in the car whose mother went out for the night and locked her out of the house. He wanted to know if she could spend the night with us. Being absolutely gullible, I found nothing wrong with this and let her stay. The following night, the two of them told me that this girl, we’ll call her Alice, was in fact a runaway. Oh, that’s just wonderful. It was late Sunday, so I said she could stay, but we’ll call her mother in the morning. It took until Wednesday for Alice to find her mother’s number. I found out that mother lives in Maryland. I called mother, and she said that she would come immediately to get her daughter. After five weeks, I figured out that mother wasn’t coming. Finally, Alice confided that her mother had lost custody of her years ago. After a short stay with an abusive uncle, she became a ward of the state, and has lived in one state run facility after another for the past three years. She never stayed for long in these facilities, and chose to live on the streets. It’s the State that she is now a When she told me all of this, I looked down at my hands where I envisioned the handcuffs being tightened around my wrists for harboring a runaway. Fearing I may have to share a cell with a gal named Brunhilda, I decided to contact her caseworker. In the midst of my conversation with the woman, I discovered that the state facilities are often dangerous places for young girls. Alice is typical in that she believes the streets are safer. The case worker then explained that there are hundreds of children in our area alone without homes, most due to no fault of their own, and when foster homes are not available or unsuitable for the child’s welfare for one reason or another, they often end up in these controlled facilities. Then the case worker politely asked, “What are you willing to do for this girl?” “Me? What did I do? It’s not my fault.” That afternoon, my son and I cried helplessly as the police came to take Alice to yet another foster home. Alice didn’t look back as they drove off. Her head was buried in her hands. I wasn’t sure what they were expecting of me. With tears running down my cheeks, I looked at my large home, all my children, my hard working husband, and my pile of laundry. I pondered the situation as I added bleach to my wash. My youngest daughter flew in to ask how to iron a silk blouse. One of my middle sons needed his necklace adjusted. My oldest son asked me to listen to the newest song he wrote. When I entered my bedroom, another son was sitting at my computer waiting for me to help him with his resume. I needed to be alone to think. I found solitude in the only place in the house where I sometimes can be alone. I sat in the bathroom, biting my nails for approximately fifteen minutes. This is so unfair. Why should I feel guilty about a child who isn’t even mine? I have enough already. I’ve waited thirty years to be free. I’ve done my job as wife and mother. I’m a career woman. I grew up watching Jane Fonda videos, for goodness sake. I am a corporate go-getter. I’ve earned the right to stand toe-to-toe with fellow employees to scratch and claw my way to middle management. I’ve earned the right as a woman to ship my younger kids off for someone else to take care of while I travel an hour to work in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I have been empowered to survive on less than four hours of sleep each night. It’s my right. It’s my time. I am woman. “Mom, there’s nothing to eat!” a daughter cried. “Who’s going to the store?” Eager for the chance at peace and quiet, I jumped into the car willingly. I shopped as slowly as I could, praying that God would stop whispering, and start bellowing, to me what he wants me to do. Surely he wants me to buckle down in the work force. I’ve been searching for the perfect career my whole life. So, what career should I go for next? I still have one or two left to try. I’m ready. As I pulled back into the driveway, I was still waiting for God’s answer. Then as my car sputtered and finally died, one of my kids poked his head out the door. He came running to the vehicle, then one-by-one all the others came. They each took turns kissing me on the cheek or patting my head as they grabbed the bags of groceries from the back of my car. The last one out hugged me ever so tight, and he wasn’t even one of mine. I followed at the back of the line, picking up the loaf of bread and deodorant that fell from one of the bags, and then it hit me. I’m not sure if it was God, or that pesky inner voice I sometimes listen to, but it took me over thirty years to see that my mission in life just marched into the house with most of the groceries. Holy Cow, that’s it! Duh, I’m a MOM. The following morning, I called the caseworker back. “I want to give Alice a home,” I said. “I want her to join our family.” The call took almost an hour as the caseworker explained all that was involved in becoming a legal guardian. When she said goodbye, I lowered the telephone receiver with a shaking hand and immediately checked my own pulse and temperature. Nope, I wasn’t ill. Then after four months and a busload of paperwork, Alice appeared on my doorstep. She gave me a sheepish smile and said, “Hi Mommy.” I wrapped my arms around her and said that her days of running away are over. She’s home now. Alice buried her face in my neck, and I felt her tears on my skin. That was it. I was hooked for life. Wouldn’t you know it? I found the best career in the world, and I don’t need a MBA to do it. My purpose in life was staring at me through several sets of eyes and braces. I’m a mom. Plain and simple. The best part is I get to dress any way I like. I could even continue with my job if I like. It costs a lot to raise a family like mine. My focus in what I strive for has changed, however, and I am finally and completely fulfilled. Sadly, now that I finally know just what I was meant to do, a few of my older children are making stirs to move on with their own lives. They should. Four of them are college graduates. I see them checking out the apartment guide magazines in the area, and they actually want to investigate the house wares section of Wal-Mart. When my oldest daughter asked me to show her how to cook, I knew time was running out. This morning, I stood at our table trying to picture a few of the places sitting empty. A chill ran up and down my spine. I spent a lifetime trying to fulfill myself out there in the real world, when my world was here all along. I sat down on the sofa feeling sorry for myself. I blew it. What an idiotic time to wake up to my lot in life. Then, just when I felt the urge to kick the cat across the floor, Alice tiptoed into the room with a progress report from her teacher. She has been working diligently to catch up in her schoolwork. I praised her efforts, and signed the report where it asked for a parent’s signature. Alice smiled and her eyes twinkled. She literally bounced back up the stairs, hugging the paper to her chest, because she has a parent for the first time in three years. At eight thirty sharp I was back on the telephone with the caseworker. “I’d like to check into becoming a foster parent for more children,” I told her. “I know what I was meant to be.” Two hours later I hung up the phone and sighed. After a secret prayer of thanks to Gloria Steinem, I held my head up high as I microwave left over pizza for my breakfast. I’ve finally come to accept the fact that I’m a natural born mother. I’m actually good at it, too. I am woman, and motherhood is my career of choice.” Debra Easterling is a fledgling writer of essays and short stories. She also recently completed her first romance novel, and her first mystery/romance novel, and is now in the process of finding agent representation for both. She enjoys spending time with her large, close knit family in the Orlando, Florida area. The antics of her children provide a majority of her inspiration in written word and in life.
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